


false equivalencies

by besselfcn



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Attempted Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Anders/Templars, Past Danarius/Fenris (Dragon Age), Past Rape/Non-con, Slavery, The Circle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22510297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: If he were a marginally better person--if he were Hawke, or evenVarric--he’d tell Anders he could talk about it in more detail, if he wanted to. If he needed to. But he doesn’t know whether he can stand to hear it, just now.
Relationships: Anders & Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	false equivalencies

**Author's Note:**

> This work is for crook & mei who listened to me YELL about dragon age as I discovered it for the first time in the year 2020. Did you guys know Dragon Age is a pretty good game!!
> 
> Also note I don't get into age of majority issues here or anything but Fenris and Anders are both mid to late teens when they undergo this abuse.

Fenris is halfway through his second wine bottle of the night when there is a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he calls out, as a question and a greeting both. It must be Hawke; no one else would bother him at this hour. And Hawke _only_ seems to bother him at this hour; he wonders often whether Hawke sleeps, or if he runs solely on adrenaline and righteousness. 

The door opens then, and--ah. 

“Mage,” Fenris states, flat.

Anders shuts the door behind him. “I was passing through,” he says in the tone of one who has rehearsed an excuse. “Thought I’d stop by.”

“Passing through Hightown on your way from your clinic to your bed five feet away,” Fenris says.

Anders folds his arms. It’s one thing Fenris can admire about the man; he certainly is stubborn.

“Whatever,” Fenris sighs. “You are here. You might as well have a seat and a drink.”

He takes the seat, but he doesn’t take the drink; he pours himself a glass of wine and then simply toys with the glass in his hands, brow furrowed, mouth pressed together. 

After a few moments of less than comfortable silence, Fenris sighs. 

“You’ve clearly come here to say something,” he tells Anders, “so say it.”

Anders glances up at him; no, he _examines_ him, like he’s one of his patients. Fenris scowls. 

“How are you doing?” Anders asks. “After--after today.”

“After ripping my master’s heart out, you mean.”

He forces Anders to meet his eyes with an icy stare. 

Anders, to his credit, does.

“Yes,” Anders says. “After that.”

Fenris curls his hands into fists beneath the table. He can still feel the blood of Danarius’s heart pumping beneath his fingertips. He can hear the sound it made, his arteries ripping free, suddenly more man than magic. 

He can taste the acidic fear in the back of his tongue when he saw the man’s face. 

“Fine,” Fenris says. 

“Mm,” Anders nods. Then he falls quiet again, like folding in on himself. 

Fenris makes it through another fourth of a bottle, staring resolutely at the wall, before Anders begins to say what it is he really came here for.

“After my third attempt to escape the Circle,” he begins, and it’s a slow start, a man piecing together a story he has not told before, “they put me in solitary. A year of it. Supposed to be a few months but I--well. I wasn’t known for my obedience.”

He drinks now; takes a sip of the wine and then scowls and puts it down again. 

“I think I went mad down there,” Anders whispers. “I mean, really mad. Nothing seemed to matter. Never knew how much time had passed. I missed--everything. I missed seeing people, arguing with them. I missed my awful classes. Missed my--my friends. I suppose that was the point.”

“And what is _your_ point,” Fenris sighs, because it is late, and he is tired, and the way Anders won’t look at anything but his hand is twisting angry knots inside his stomach. 

“I’m getting there, if you’d let me,” Anders snaps. He looks up, at least. Good. 

His face softens again, with a sigh. 

“There was a Templar,” Anders says. “Took night guard duty sometimes. He--visited me, sometimes. Said he would keep me company if I would… make it worth his time. I’m sure I don’t have to elaborate for you.”

Fenris closes his eyes. Behind them swirls memories, sensations, dangerously close to the surface; he shoves them away, effortfully. “No,” he says. 

Anders nods. The knots inside Fenris’s stomach are beginning to unfurl; they feel worse like this, though. He feels nauseous, from the wine or from the mage or from a hundred different things, all clawing at his insides. 

If he were a marginally better person--if he were Hawke, or even _Varric_ \--he’d tell Anders he could talk about it in more detail, if he wanted to. If he needed to. But he doesn’t know whether he can stand to hear it, just now.

“The thing was,” Anders goes on. “The thing was. I was so--desparate. For anything. To talk to another living soul that wasn’t a fucking cat. That it didn’t seem that bad, really, at first. I even--when he wouldn’t come by for a while, I’d _miss_ him. It makes me sick, remembering, but then, I--wanted it. Something about it. I don’t know.”

Fenris’s teeth are clenched. His nails dig into his own palms. _You used to be fond of me_ . _Yes, Master. Of course, Master. Thank you, Master. It would be an honor. A privilege. Thank you. Thank you._

“Is this your way of trying to relate to me, mage?” Fenris bites out, before he can stop himself. 

Anders’s face twists into bitterness. “I suppose so,” he says, and does not need to add _though I regret it now_.

“Well,” Fenris begins, then bites his tongue. 

Something in Anders’s eyes. It’s too easy to see the boy he was talking about in them--the child of sixteen or seventeen hidden in the back of a dampened dungeon, thankful for the suffering someone chose to inflict upon him. 

“I am sorry that happened to you,” Fenris manages. “I would not wish an experience like that upon anyone, even yourself. But you and I--what we have endured is not the same. I implore you to understand this.”

Anders looks at him, then. 

Really looks at him. Not examining him like a patient or glaring at him like an enemy. He looks Fenris over the same way he looks at Hawke, or Merril, or Isabela, or any of the rest of them--with suspicion, but with _understanding_. 

Maybe he sees it, too. The boy who barely knows his own age sold sold into a new home, a new master. Lyrium scorching under his skin. Happy to be drunk on wine worth more than he was and touched like he was something that mattered.

It makes Fenris’s skin crawl, that look.

“I know,” Anders says slowly, and Fenris can almost believe it. “I just didn’t want you to think--I don’t know. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

Damn him, Fenris thinks. Damn his honesty. Damn his heart, open and bleeding. Damn this city that’s made him care.

“I understand your intent,” Fenris says quietly, staring at somewhere past Anders’ head. “And I. Appreciate it.”

Anders--smiles. It’s almost not disturbing. 

He takes a long, careful drink of wine; he’s clearly trying to enjoy it, with how expensive it is. Fenris would tell him he needn’t, but it’s funny watching him, the wince as he swallows down mouthfuls. 

Fenris takes a swig himself. 

“Is he dead now?” he finds himself asking. “This Templar?”

Anders _laughs._ “Maker, no,” he says. His tone is laced with acid. “You think anyone cared what the Templars did to the Mages? If they’d known he managed to make the Anders boy obedient they’d have promoted him. Hell, probably did. Probably on his way to becoming fucking Knight-Commander.”

Fenris hums. Feels the rumble in his chest. 

“Men in power are much the same,” he says. 

He rolls the wine around on his tongue for a moment before he adds, “If we ever meet him on our travels, let me know. I would be happy to relieve him of some vital organs, if you wish.”

For a moment, all Anders does is stare.

Then, with his head thrown back and a hand on his chest, he laughs, and laughs, and sounds a hundred times lighter as he does. 


End file.
